Compromising Her Position (Compromise Me 1)

Chelsea would lose at poker. Her face gave everything away. Right now, it reflected annoyance and reluctant desire. The expression made him want to keep right on pushing her buttons, until she slapped him or fucked him. Possibly both. He shrugged and picked up her nearly empty glass. “Another drink?”

She coughed into her fist and shook her head. “I’m not going to bed with you.”

“Bed, sofa, coffee table…I’m flexible about the location, and I’m not saying tonight’s the night, but we both know it’s going to happen, and we both know why.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she folded her arms across her chest. “Oh really? Enlighten me, please. Why, in your mind, is this inevitable?”

He leaned in, deliberately invading her personal space. When they were close enough he could smell the coconut-scented guest soap on her skin, he said, “Because whenever we get near each other, you remember everything I did to you in just ten minutes, in a cramped supply closet. You can’t stop wondering what I’d do if I had you naked, somewhere private, with hours to spend on every inch of you. I’ll give you a hint. The closet would look like foreplay.”

Her pulse beat strong and fast at the base of her throat. Her eyes dropped to his mouth and her lips parted, but the words that came out were pure nonsense.

“I think just the opposite, actually. The rush, the darkness, and the impropriety of jumping Santa in a supply closet were what made it so hot. Without all that”—she blinked and raised her gaze to his—“I’m sure the sex would be boring.”

Boring? He nearly laughed in her face, until he considered who she’d been sleeping with until recently. She’d no doubt experienced plenty of boring sex. Poor baby. He came nearer, stopping when their mouths were just inches apart. “Why don’t we put your theory to the test?”

She sucked in a breath and braced herself. He figured she expected more of what he’d given her last night—a hard, hungry assault. Instead, he teased his lips over hers.

For one shocked moment she stayed absolutely still, and then she sighed and melted against him, a hand on his cheek, the other curled around the slope of his neck. That’s right, Chelsea. This time it’s all on you.

But his hands were on the move, too, up the back of her dress, because only a dead man could sit there passively with her pressed against him. He opened his mouth against hers, coaxing her to do the same, and licked his way along the inner curve of her upper lip. Urgent little sounds vibrated in her throat. She leaned in to deepen the kiss, and he eased back, forcing her to work for what she wanted.

Work she did. She climbed over him, planted her knees on either side of his hips, and fused her mouth to his. Fingernails combed his scalp while her tongue searched for his. He evaded, enjoying every new angle she tried in her effort to capture him. While he kept her mouth busy, he inched her dress up—high enough to get a glimpse of blue panties—and then pushed her thighs wider so she straddled him properly. Finally, he guided her onto his lap, making sure her silk-covered center got a good, long ride down the hard ridge straining the front of his jeans. At the same time, he gave her his tongue.

Her groan flowed into his mouth and merged with his. She rocked her hips, grinding against him.

“Jesus, you feel good. Lift up and do it again.”

She made a sound of consent, but then went rogue and rocked forward for another quick grind.

“Do it now,” he prompted, and untangled her dress from around her thighs. The extra freedom only made her more restless, so he grabbed her hips and lifted her into position. “There you go, breaking the rules again. I’ve figured out something about you Miss Wayne.”

“You think so?” Those big brown eyes flashed with impatience.

“What happened in the closet wasn’t a wayward impulse. You secretly like breaking the rules.” As he spoke, he dipped his fingers into his drink, and then traced the v of her thong. She shivered when drops of the cold liquor rolled down her skin, then shivered again as he followed the wet trails with his fingertips. Her eyelids drooped, and she murmured, “Maybe.”

He stilled his hand. She lifted her hips, seeking his touch.

“Sometimes when you break the rules, you get punished.” Warning issued, he tangled his fingers into the back of her thong, pulling it tight between her legs.

Her head lolled forward. Hands clutched his shoulders. Something halfway between a moan and a sigh filled his ear. The sound waves vibrated into his brain, down his spine, and along his throbbing shaft—as palpable as a touch. He used his hold to guide her back onto his lap, then dipped his fingers into his drink again, and re-threaded them into her thong. Making a fist drew the fabric snug. He tightened and released, tightened and released until she tipped her head back and shuddered.

He kissed the vulnerable underside of her chin, her jaw, while she rocked against him. “I want—”

A knock at the door cut her off, and a melodic male voice on the other side called, “Room service.”

She froze. Long eyelids lifted and trapped him in a universe of soft, dark velvet.

Fuck it, he’d forgotten about their dinner. And now there they sat, Chelsea poised to come any second, and his cock pounding in anticipation.

Reluctantly, he removed his hand from her underwear. “Do me a favor and get that.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You want me to answer the door?”

“I’m in no condition to greet room service. I nominate you.” He rolled his hips, reminding her of his situation.

Gauging by the way her breath hitched, his reminder struck a chord, but she made no move to get up. “I don’t think you really want me to do that.”

The knock at the door sounded again. “One minute,” he called, never taking his eyes off her face. “Why?”